


The Old Song

by aviaviator



Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine
Genre: Gen, creepy spooky monsters and all, mild warning for body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 13:25:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12936216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aviaviator/pseuds/aviaviator
Summary: Henry gets tied up.





	The Old Song

**Author's Note:**

> H o l y f u c k . I told myself this was gonna be a short drabble, but boy, was I wrong. Anyway, this is another test at writing creepy scenarios and an interpretation for that whole kidnapping scene near the end of Chapter 2, so spoilers if you haven’t played that far. (Also, fair note, this was written before Chapter 3 came out. I don't believe there are any discrepancies, but if you find some feel free to let me know!)

He shouldn't have stayed in the studio.

He should have turned on his heel and left the moment he realized that Joey Drew, his old boss and friend, was nowhere to be found, even though he requested his visit in the first place.

And he definitely should not have turned that _damn_ machine on.

But no, his curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he'd went through all the trouble to collect those office relics-–sacrifices?-–and fix the ink flow. And how was he rewarded? Why, with a chase from a demonic, three-dimensional rendition of the old cartoon character he use to animate and a fall through the floor to the basement, _of course_.

Exploring the underground music department had been...interesting, to say the least, what with all the satanic-looking pentagrams and alters to a cartoon deity scattered about and the massive expansion that must have cost Joey a fortune. And, yet again, his attempts to reach an exit out of the animation studio were thwarted, this time by a sudden, surprising blow to the back of the head.

And as he fell to the floor with a heavy thud, barely aware of the shadowy figure looming over him, Henry found himself remembering an old saying about curiosity and cats, and could feel the regret steadily growing.

When he finally came to, he was on his feet, slumped and supported against a wooden column that someone was currently tying his wrists behind. Henry blinked once, twice, and then shut his eyes tightly as he became suddenly aware of the pain that throbbed at the back of his head, where he had been hit with some sort of heavy object not too long ago. He would not be surprised if he was left with a nasty bump from that attack, but it was certainly not the worst he had suffered.

Henry took the opportunity to survey his surroundings now that he was conscious and his captor was still securing the bindings. As far as he could tell, he was still in the animation studio–-the abhorrently dim lighting casting everything in sepia tones, the familiar dark stains and the tell-tale sound of ink dripping from some distant, leaking pipe was enough to tell him so-–and the now familiar alters and a set of speakers not too far away from where he was standing signaled that he was still in the music department.

There was something like a set of wooden posts not far from where he was tied, supporting the aforementioned speakers and looking for all the world like some sort of gateway. Leaning against it was the ax he picked up shortly after arriving in the basement, and beyond it was a door akin to the ones used for garages. To his left was a closed door that seemed to lead into a recording booth, and on the wooden floor beneath his feet, there was a pentagram painted in the accursed, black ink, the sight of which startled Henry. He straightened, but most of his movements were restrained by the ropes tied behind him.

"There we go now, nice and tight," an eerily cool voice said from behind him, and it was only then that he registered that his captor had stopped fiddling with the bindings. "We wouldn’t want our sheep roaming away, now, would we?"

The captor revealed himself then, stepping around Henry to lean in his face. The old animator pulled himself from the masked figure, reeling from the acidic scent and what he could only assume was the smell of rubber ink lingering on the other’s breath.

"No, we wouldn’t," the man before him concluded, and Henry choked back a gasp once his mind connected the voice to a face.

Sammy Lawrence had always been an odd character in Henry's mind. Even during the studio's golden days, the music director was reserved and mostly kept to himself, and usually ventured out of his office only to complain when he was particularly upset about Joey Drew springing up an unexpected deadline on the employees. Most of the other artists in Henry's department weren't too keen to interact with him, but while he did not know him well enough Henry himself had always regarded the man with respect. Sammy was clearly talented at what he did, and he'd be damned to say that he didn't at least tap his foot while listening to those cartoon tunes while he was working.

But that had been the Sammy Lawrence back then. The Sammy Lawrence now looked like he'd gone through a horrific transformation and was no longer recognizable. His skin was a deep, dark black, dripping in some places like some sort of sludge–to his horror, Henry realized that it was ink. The only articles of clothing that he was wearing were a pair of pants and suspenders that resembled the same kind Boris the Wolf wore in the cartoons (but it looked odd, stiff like cardboard), and the head of one of those wretched, life-sized Bendy cutouts, re-purposed as a makeshift mask despite its fading paint and broken hole in a few of the teeth the grin sported. Sammy had always been a little imposing-–he held a vertical advantage over most of the other staff members, and Henry lacked quite a bit when it came to inches-–but right then, with the dim lighting and the way he loomed over the old animator, he appeared downright terrifying.

And if those recorded tapes scattered around the studio were anything to go by, he was just as insane, too.

"I must admit, I am... _honored_ you came all the way down here to visit me," Sammy continued, unhindered by Henry's shocked and horrified expression. "It almost makes what I’m about to do seem...cruel. But the believers must honor their saviors. I must have him notice me."

Henry swallowed past a lump in his throat as he slowly understood what that meant.

There was an odd, hesitant silence as Sammy stopped his monologue to lean further into Henry's face, his head now in a confused tilt. If he didn't know any better, Henry would have said that the music director was frowning underneath that mask.

"–Wait," the silence broke at last, "you look familiar to me. That face…"

All at once, the old animator felt the urge to yell at the figure before him that barely resembled the man it once was. They were co-workers, for god's sake! Sure, thirty years was a hell of a long time, but certainly not enough for Sammy to completely forget about a head animator, right? Unless his current body horror really was doing worse things to his mind, and he really was beyond saving. Henry opened his mouth to explain their relations to each other–but was immediately cut off by a faint, distant clanging in the pipes, and Sammy stiffened and straightened as he snapped out of the moment.

"Not now, for our lord is calling to us, my little sheep," he raved. "The time of sacrifice is at hand! And then, I will finally be freed from this _...prison_." He paused as he frantically waved a hand as though to gesture at the horrifying transformation his body had taken. Flecks of ink flung from the limb (Henry cringed as a few came too close to his face), and drops fell from his arm and onto the floor. "This...inky, dark... _abyss_ I call a body."

Henry swallowed, trying to hide the fear as he attempted once again to reason with the man before him. "Sammy–-"

Another clang interrupted him, but this time it was louder and followed by a chorus of banging in the pipes that seemed to be progressively getting closer. The old music director waved his hand again to his masked face, an ink-dripping finger hovering over the broken teeth of the cartoonish grin.

"Shhhhh! Quiet!" He pointed excitedly at the ceiling as the eerie noise continued, and Henry could feel the fear bubbling in his gut. There was no mistaking the grin in Sammy's voice. "Listen! I can hear him…crawling above. Crawling! Let us begin. The ritual must be complete. Soon he will hear me..." And then he leaned in close once again, repeating a line Henry had seen painted in ink on the walls of the music department that sent shivers up the old man's spine:

"He will set us free."

Sammy walked off towards the door to Henry's left, leaving him alone with a crushing feeling of dread. The old animator struggled against his bindings in an attempt to break free. He had to get out of here. He had to get out before that cartoonish ink demon found him, tied up and vulnerable. He did not want to know what it would do to him if it found him, and definitely did not want to stay long enough to find out.

But the ropes tying his hands back were tight.

It didn't stop him from trying.

There was a ringing as the speakers before him came to life, and Sammy Lawrence's voice spoke through the metallic boxes in that eerily cool tone of his. He was chanting some kind of rhyme about sleeping sheep, and Henry recognized the lines from a song from one of the old episodes, except the words were wrong. They were twisted, dark, not at all a rhyme meant for kids. But Henry couldn't afford to pay much attention to what the music director was saying. The garage-like door not far in front of him opened and he struggled harder, half-expecting the monster his captor was trying to summon to come barreling through.

But it didn't. The clanging in the pipes became louder, coming closer and closer until it was practically overhead, and it continued making its way through the pipes that passed through the room Sammy entered into, and after a moment it stopped. The music director's voice suddenly became frantic through the tinny speakers as a new sound carried through it, something Henry was afraid to call growling. He struggled even harder with ropes tied around his wrists.

"No! My lord! Stay back! I am your prophet!"

With a final pull, the ropes snapped and came undone.

Sammy let out a blood-curtling, fearful scream at the same moment.

The first thing Henry did now that he was free was reach for the ax once again. Now armed, he charged through the entry before him that opened during Sammy's chanting, not waiting around for that monster to find him. He continued down the hall, only letting himself slow down once he was certain that he made enough distance. It was quiet now, as quiet as it was upstairs when he first arrived to the studio and as quiet as it was when he traversed through the music department, but Henry still held his ax before him wearily as his heart pounded in his chest. He kept going, kept walking…

A light down the hall caught the old animator's attention.

He stopped.

It was an exit sign.

Henry almost collapsed in a heap at the sight, the relief almost killing him. At last, a way out of this animation studio from hell! The only thing separating him from the door to his freedom was-–

–-A room entirely flooded with ink.

He swore under his breath as he examined it. Whatever the room's old purpose was was now lost to the black liquid. It now served as a makeshift lake that Henry wagered to be at least calf-deep. The scent was unbearable, but if it was the only way out...

Henry sighed and approached the room cautiously, the ax still held in front of him like a lifeline.

Before he could set foot in it, though, the ink erupted like a geyser, and from the spray the demonic, lanky, monstrous form of the old cartoon character he used to animate emerged, grinning menacingly at him. Henry gasped and stumbled back, scrambling in order to sprint back down the hallway again. How did it find him so soon? Wasn't it at the music department just moments before?

He spared a glance over his shoulder as he raced away, barely catching the oddity that was its awkwardly twisted leg. He didn't allow himself to think too much on it just yet, but if it was enough to slow the monster down, even just a little bit, he was glad of it.

The old man bolted down a new path, slamming the door shut as he reached a different area of the studio. Henry locked it with a board of wood, pressed his back against it, and waited. Something slammed against the other side of the door, loud and heavy. It rattled the door on its hinges, and then it slammed again, and then a third time, but somehow the wooden board held. Henry heard the monster lean against the other side and pant like it was trying to catch its breath, and then it sauntered away.

He let out a heavy breath. He was safe.

For now.

For now, he better figure out where he was and where the nearest exit was. Henry, still clutching the handle of the ax in a death grip, looked around. There were a few shelves stocked with what looked like old merchandise (they were lined with Bendy plushes and cans of bacon soup and other odds and ends), but there wasn't much else to help him save for a sign-–"53 Vault," it read–-hanging above the doorway straight ahead. With nowhere left to go, for going back out was simply out of the question, Henry resigned himself to moving onward.

There was a clatter and a clunk as a can of bacon soup rolled from beyond the corner and into view. Henry felt himself tense up, and, suddenly realizing he wasn't alone in whatever part of the studio this was, readied the ax like a weapon.

"Hello? Someone there?" he called out to whoever was out there. "I know you’re in here. Come out and show yourself."

And the other obliged, cautiously stepping around the corridor to meet him, and Henry felt the shock strike him immediately. The tight grip on the ax slackened and he felt the urge to pinch himself, because there was no way what he was seeing was real. It couldn't be, because he'd seen the same figure on the metal slab upstairs, dead, with its chest open and rib cage exposed. It couldn't be. It just _couldn't_.

But it was.

Standing before him, as though he had been pulled off the concept sheets and perfectly rendered in three dimensions, was the co-star of the old cartoon Henry used to draw for.

"…Boris?"


End file.
